


Let There Be Time

by shirogiku



Category: Black Sails
Genre: All The Love For Miranda, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Biblical References, Cute Marrieds, Fix-It of Sorts, Groundhog Day, Magical Realism, Miranda Lives AU, Miranda's Rage, Miranda-Centric, Multi, Season/Series 02, The Hamiltons' Clock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 14:55:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7319659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirogiku/pseuds/shirogiku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miranda and the last day of their lives - knowing what she does now, if the clock were turned back, what would she do differently?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let There Be Time

She wakes to the sweet, clean smell of lavender, the final chime of the clock still ringing in her ears. Between one heartbeat and the next, the sound is gone, and she thinks, _This cannot be right -_ there is no smoke and no pain.

Her heart is pounding against her ribcage as if to burst free. James never knocks like that; not even when he can barely walk and most of the blood is his.

Death is believed to be many things, but soft linen against bare skin or the slow, measured breathing beside her - no more forgotten than she could forget her own - is something of a non sequitur. She dares not look, except she must. She must because she has forfeited her right to cowardice.

So she rolls onto her side and sees Thomas, who is smiling in his sleep. Little by little, the terrible pounding in her chest subsides as she watches him. He had always been blessed with peaceful dreams, barred from any demons of the waking world. Perhaps that was why he could carry on as he had done.

She prods his side, fully expecting to touch thin air. He doesn’t vanish in a puff of smoke, but neither does he stir, and before she knows what she is doing, she grasps his shoulder and gives him a shake.

“Dearest?” He blinks in confusion. “What’s wrong? Did you have a bad dream?”

Her voice is caught in her throat.

“It’s alright,” he whispers, gathering her into his arms. “It’s alright,” he repeats, stroking her hair. “Dreams cannot hurt you.” She lets out a strangled half laugh half sob. “Say, how about a glass of warm milk?”

“We aren’t children,” comes her cross, befuddled reply.

“Shsh, the milk won't find out if we don't tell it.” He throws backs the covers and rustles about for their nightgowns.

The stillness of this house is eerie. As Thomas tows her along down the corridor, she wonders what she would see if she tried to open any of the doors. Would the rooms still be there? Would the servants be in their beds downstairs?

In the parlour, the air shifts, and her surroundings begin to crowd her. Not a single thing is out of place, including her - she cannot move. Her gaze snags on what Thomas used to call the Galileo. English make, accurate enough to aid in serious astronomical observation, like those thirteen-foot pendulums from the Royal Observatory which Thomas and James used to fawn over. Miranda, for her part, used to like it for its case and bronze work, in perfect harmony with the rest of her decor.

“Thomas?” she forces out. “Do you remember where we got this clock from?” She hastily pushes aside the memories of Paris, those happy hours spent admiring the things that they did not need.

“Exchange Alley?” He doesn’t seem too certain. “Oh, that reminds me, we owe Mr. Quare a visit! It has been a while, and James will _love_ his shop.” Thomas squeezes her hand, bringing some life back into all of her limbs. “Please don’t tell me you are thinking of giving it away and going French, after all.”

That is indeed is the greatest danger that he is facing here. “It can wait until morning.”

The milk, when they finally find it, tastes so good that she drains both of their glasses, Thomas teasing her about it mercilessly. She isn't aware that she has said those exact same words to him before. Not yet.

 

* * *

 

If anything, the morning feels even more dream-like. She has forgotten - has _allowed_ herself to forget - the exact pattern of crinkles around Thomas’s eyes, but not what all this cutlery is for. Oh, but do his jokes still make her laugh!

She keeps watching him raptly, heedless of the fire and brimstone that are no doubt waiting for her at the end of this dream.

“I do wish James could have stayed for breakfast,” Thomas complains with a tiny sigh over his overbuttered toast. “There is absolutely _no_ reason why he couldn’t have gone to the Admiralty from our house.”

“He wanted to stay focused,” she remembers.

She also remembers throwing their best china against the wall because she couldn't manage to pack it on time. She almost smashed it all then, but James stopped her - there was no time. Never enough time.

“And we, uh, _un_ -focus him? Now that's a pretty thing to hear!”

“Yes, we do.” She takes Thomas’s hand and holds it between hers. “Be this Hell or a trick of a dying mind, I want you to know that-”

This is home, home at last, even if it does not feel like it - even if too many things has slipped through the cracks and all the wrong ones has stayed with her.

She does not get to finish her sentence - Alfred Hamilton’s men arrive at the chiming of the hour, as grim as a parcel of executioners. This is how it finally dawns on her: her punishment for her sins is to relive the last day of their lives and all her mistakes. She has made so many, but abandoning Thomas to the mercy of these vultures is what has set her and James on the road to their final ruin.

Oblivion is for those who have earned it.

She screams in rage - so what if they drag _her_ away instead. None of Thomas’s pleas reach her ears, and Peter’s face makes her see red. Before she is restrained, she manages to stab a man's palm with her fork, which is an almost piratical feat in its own right.

Thomas, though, isn't allowed to walk free either.

“I am done fighting,” she says out loud, shivering in the cold of her cell. “ _I am done fighting._ ” But her fight was over just as it began, and she cannot help but feel cheated.

She wonders what James's hell is like.

 

* * *

 

She wakes to the sweet, clean smell of lavender, the final chime of the clock still ringing in her ears. Between one heartbeat and the next, the sound is gone, and she thinks, _Oh God, this is worse than I thought._

The Bible teaches submission, but not silence, and at any rate, she has never been one to submit _meekly_. So she marks Day Two, and rouses Thomas with a harsh kiss, desperate to share her inner turmoil, her anguish, her sheer loneliness. Death has parted them, and in death they are reunited, so he should have received her properly, not as a shadow from the past.

He is completely docile, holding her so tight that she cannot go on like this. With a sob, she drops her head onto his shoulder, his hands already rubbing soothing circles into her back, followed by promises that he cannot hope to keep. They never go back to sleep, spending the night reading to each other and sharing the best bottle of wine from the cellar and whatever else they could purloin from their own pantry.

The separation, when it comes, manages to be more heart-rending than before: when she forces Peter to admit to his treachery, she can _see_ light and hope go out of Thomas’s eyes.

 

* * *

 

Day Three is more or less the same. She tells her foolish boys how sorry she is and how much she loves them.

 

* * *

 

Day Four is building barricades. She dismisses the servants and blocks the door, but the Earl’s henchmen force it before they can escape. It does not help the matters any that until the last, Thomas is convinced that she is simply having an attack of nerves, humouring her like he would a frightened child.

 

* * *

 

Day Five is different. She _does_ know that she cannot undo what has already been done and that the lesson here is to accept it. But she’ll be more damned if she _doesn’t_ try.

She tiptoes out of their bedroom, counting her heartbeats to calm herself. Without the wool in her eyes, it isn’t that hard to pinpoint which one has been reporting back to the Earl. Sally, the fool, bursts into tears, so Thomas ends up plying her with brandy and directing his reproachful looks at _Miranda_.

“Well, better late than never,” he concludes. Miranda is yet to deliver the bad news about Peter. “What now?” He means to take his time and play metaphorical chess, and all that she can do is restrain herself from crying, 'Hurry, hurry, hurry!'

“ _We_ have been forewarned,” she replies, “but James is still in peril.”

Thomas has this quaint little theory that the balance of the world hinges on its proportion of cynics to idealists. Too many cynics, and there is no forward momentum. Too many idealists, and there is no one to warn them when the foundations begin to crumble. What he has failed to foresee is that he and his cynic growing so enamoured of each other that it will render them deaf and blind to all danger.

The name does the trick. Having made sure that Sally is in no position to do them any more harm, Miranda steers Thomas towards their carriage.

James’s answer to their very reasonable plan of leaving London is:

“No.” Of all the pig-headed walking disasters! “I am _not_ going anywhere before I hear what Hennessy has got to say to me.”

“James, for God’s sake, he has already sold you out!” She would not have spoken to him like this in life, but then again, keeping too many things to herself has always been her downfall. “There is no reasoning with any of those people. We must save ourselves first, and then you two can go back to your bloody castles in the sky!”

Thomas flinches, not meeting Miranda’s eyes. “I haven't realised that our ‘castles in the sky’ has grown so abhorrent to you.”

“That's not what I meant!”

But the damage has already been done. A look passes between the pair, and Thomas lets James go without another protest.

They wait outside the snide, self-aggrandising edifice, but it swallows their McGraw without giving him back.

 

* * *

 

“Thank Heaven I didn’t have to watch the hanging,” she says to the dark bedchamber. She pauses, a doubt entering her mind.

Thomas is facing away from her and she wraps herself around him, burying her face against his neck. There is more anger in her than ever.

Day Six is a bit… _silly_. Inspired by that one time when she got James so drunk that he missed the tide and was forced to stay for three more days. He simply migrated to the tavern, so the victory was hollow.

“I am not comfortable with this,” Thomas declares dutifully as she measures out the sleeping draught.

“Are you comfortable with his neck in the noose?” She regrets her harsh tone immediately. “Thomas, he cannot be reasoned with. Believe me, I have tried.” So she is entitled to _some_ bitterness. “This is the only way to get him to safety.”

He gives her a long, searching look. “I believe you.”

“I'm only trying to save the pair of you!”

He cups her cheek. “And yourself?”

He ought to know better than to suspect her of any selfish motives! She covers his hand with hers. “And myself.”

James comes to early, and makes his escape just as the ship sails off for Europe.

 

* * *

 

A lot can change over twenty-four hours, especially six times repeated. On Day Seven, she asks herself how on earth Thomas has survived Eton.

“I’ll have you know,” he huffs, “I _excelled_ at sneaking around the grounds. Just not in this wig.”

“You're the one who believes that people won’t take you seriously without it.”

The general idea is to corner James’s patron _before_ the fateful meeting - James never did share any finer details with her - and trick him if not into switching sides, then at least into sending James away before the Earl can see him. However, they are quite obviously too late.

James storms into their house, which is overrun by the Earl’s men.

“Er.” Thomas does not despair yet, bless him. “Do you think the library has something on breaking people out of prison?”

They can always throw James in Bedlam instead.

 

* * *

 

On Day Eight, she loses the staring contest with the clock. “Are _you_ doing this to me?” she demands. “ _Why_?”

How many tries has she got left?

By way of reply, it strikes midnight.

 

* * *

 

On Day Nine and despite her previous realisation, she gives in to blind fury.

She has just shot Alfred Hamilton - with James’s pistol. There are voices all around her, cocooning her, Thomas and James arguing ceaselessly which one of them should take the fall.

It is her favourite day yet, and that scares her nearly as much as the prospect of running out of second chances.

(Peter is not worth it. Peter is not worth it. Peter is not worth it.)

Revenge is much too easy to get used to.

 

* * *

 

Day Ten is another failure to break James out - he was pulled off the departing ship. Miranda and Thomas are detained together, but next comes the separation. They haven’t even killed anyone this time!

She returns to her first belief that the clock has got nothing to do with the endless cycle of nightmares.

 

* * *

 

Day Eleven starts with a whisper: “Thomas.” These quiet hours is when she allows herself to hope and pretend that there _is_ a way out. “Tell me again how there is no Hell.”

He kisses her palm, leaving his smile in it. “Because if He, in His infinite wisdom, has seen it fit to create us in His own image, then our capacity for love is a reflection of His love. And no loving parent would ever condemn His children to eternal damnation.” Thomas also doubts the existence of the Devil - and if the Adversary does exist, then he is not beyond salvation either.

A God whose image has produced _both_ of the Hamiltons, the father and the son, must be capable of anything between infinite cruelty and infinite kindness.

“Consider a person who rejects God,” Thomas goes on. “Saying that this person must suffer eternally or else be annihilated, isn't it essentially like holding them hostage? It goes against the very concept of free will.”

Miranda feels too tired to follow the argument, Thomas’s beautiful voice flowing through her like a lullaby. He is so, _so_ naive.

 

“We have to do _what_ ,” James says flatly.

Miranda pulls her coat tighter around herself. Wishes she could have more time with her old finery, before mentally slapping herself on the wrist for it.

“Alfred _knows,_ ” she repeats. James balls up his fists as he hears about Peter’s part in it. “We _have_ to get out of here before he makes his move.” She fabricates threats that have never actually been uttered - frankly, no invention can be too grotesque at this point.

“But that’s all you ask of me.”

“Indeed, it is not.”

James paces the room like a caged tiger. If this is the day the clock starts moving again, she will have to live with him knowing that she knows about the darkness in his soul, waiting to be unleashed upon the world. He protests that he is not her goddamn assassin and calls her mad for coming to him with this, in the dead of night.

She simply keeps looking at him, and her pitiless calm brings him to his knees.

He lowers himself in front of her chair, a knight in tarnished armour that will be king on a throne of sun-bleached skulls. “We will go wherever you say,” he pleads with her. “I will convince Thomas. But please, please don’t make me _kill_ for you, because...”

Because he wouldn't be able to live with the knowledge and face Thomas afterwards. She runs her fingers through James's hair, nails grazing against the scalp. He has killed for his mentor, for the Sea Lords, for this rotten country. He would kill for a dream, but not to save their lives?

She tilts up his chin. “Forgive me, James. I wouldn’t have said it had I known a better way to convince you to stop.”

He glares at her, but the rising quarrel is interrupted by a knock on the door. For a terrible moment, they can do nothing but sit still as if to merge with the shadows. Then they hear Thomas’s sleepy voice, asking what they are about.

He is relieved to find Miranda here - he only feared that she had gone to Paris without a farewell.

For three people so in tune with one another, they can be incredibly bad at compromises. Miranda wants to run but also to tear and rend. She wants revenge. But her future isn’t _theirs_ , not yet, and she cannot—

— _will_ not bring it about just to feed her own darkness.

She gathers her husband and his - _their_ \- lover to herself and says, “Wherever we go, we go there all together.”

 

* * *

 

She wakes to a sick feeling in her stomach, but that is merely what being aboard a moving ship is like for the first few days or so. She glances from James to Thomas, remembering the shared look on their faces when she insisted on hauling out the clock and dropping it off on the doorstep of some poor unsuspecting souls.

Quietly, she makes her way out of the cabin.

“It wasn’t _just_ a clever maneuver,” James says behind her. “When you said ‘kill Alfred Hamilton’, you meant every word.”

She hushes him, even though they are the only ones at the railing. Neither of them picks up the loose thread of the conversation, looking back across the water in silence. The ship is churning out a fine trail of foam, and Miranda turns her face into the wind, letting its chilly touch untether her.

“I have seen a future in which we have been too careless. Too trusting.” She reaches out to him. “I never wish to live it again.”

After a pause, he takes her hand, insisting, “ _Tell_ me.”

She smiles in surprise. “Perhaps I shall. One day.” When he is ready.

There will be time.

**Author's Note:**

> I did a quick search of grandfather clocks, and it seems like the Hamiltons' could have been made by [Quare](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daniel_Quare). But here, it might as well be from the same kind of shop as Jumanji :D


End file.
